A Simple Thanksgiving Story - Homeward Bound

This is one of my most popular posts.
 It's a simple story about Thanksgiving that's worth reading again.

You wouldn't think the muddy banks of the Ohio River would be a likely place for
a Thanksgiving story but it's a place I always think of this time of year.

It's easy to remember the wide brown river since it was essentially in our back yard. 

The river was on one side of our house; railroad tracks clacked from the other side.

 I grew up watching slow-moving barges travel up and down the river in the summer 

and floods creeping towards our house in the spring,
while hoping to get out of school as the river's muddy waters quietly filled our basement.

We watched fireworks from our little boat drifting in the river's dark depths 

and we helped Dad plant a little garden on its banks. 

The soil was rich and the water supply was close by but we never reaped much from it. 

It was almost as if the vegetables disappeared before they could make it to our supper table. 

And in a way, they did.

Dad said it was a hobo garden. 

He planted it for the men who rode the boxcars through the Ohio Valley looking for work.

I never knew what the word "hobo" actually meant until years later when I'd moved away. 

I learned it's an abbreviation of "homeward bound." 

That phrase seems to put a whole different meaning to the word. 

Hobos weren't homeless. They were riding the rails, building little campfires at night to take the
chill from the damp air, and looking for work until they could make their way back home.

A hobo was different from a "tramp" who worked only if he absolutely had to 

or a "bum" who usually stayed in one place and didn't ever work.

A hobo, on the other hand, was a traveling laborer. 

Hobos' numbers soared during the Great Depression era of the 1930s. 

With no work or prospects at home, many took to the rails
looking for whatever work they could find.

Some famous hobos included Jack Dempsey, Woody Guthrie,
Jack London, Carl Sandberg and Louis L'Amour.

Photo by Arthur Rothstein, 1939

I remember my father telling stories about his riding the boxcars as a young man
during the Depression, picking up odd jobs along the way in exchange for food,
always thinking about going home. 

Perhaps that's why he had a soft spot for his garden hobos.

If Dad saw a hobo in his riverbank garden grabbing tomatoes or pulling up carrots, 

he didn't chase them away from his hard-earned crop.

No, my Dad invited them to come home with him for supper! 

We didn't have a lot but Mom always fixed a little extra because she never knew 

when Dad would bring someone home to have supper with us.

After a home-cooked meal, Dad would take the hobos up to the edge of the Georges Run Station
rail yards in Mingo Junction so they could catch the next train out. 

Then he'd quietly give them a few dollars before they took off, homeward bound once again.

I know these men were thankful for a good meal and a little help on their journeys.
I hope, when they finally made it home,
they fondly remembered my parents on Thanksgiving as I always do each year.

Happy Thanksgiving!

***

If you enjoyed your visit, I hope you'll follow me by email.
Just subscribe (it's FREE) in the upper right column of this page.
Thank you!

***

Linking with:
Dwellings, Between Naps on the Porch, Coastal Charm, Cedar Hill Farmhouse, A Stroll Thru Life,
Savvy Southern Style, A Delightsome Life, Have a Daily Cup of Mrs. Olson, The Vintage Nest,
Peonies and Orange Blossoms, Poofing the Pillows, Adirondack Girl at Heart, Rooted in Thyme,
Shabby Art Boutique, French Country Cottage